


More Economic Than Drugs or a Drink

by catefrankie



Series: More Economic [1]
Category: Veronica Mars (Movie 2014), Veronica Mars (TV), Veronica Mars - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Teachers, F/M, I don't know if it's angsty, also there's some cussing, meet-not-so-cute with possible angst, no worse than the movie though, triggers: mentions of past abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-09
Updated: 2016-10-09
Packaged: 2018-08-20 08:24:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8242760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catefrankie/pseuds/catefrankie
Summary: She left New York journalism and got this teaching gig because it was supposed to get her away from egos and general smarminess, not because she wanted to worship at the altar of some English teacher with stupid hair and tailored shirts and the arms of somebody with really good arms, and seriously, who wears tailored shirts to teach high school?  What high school teacher even has tailored shirts? High school teachers AU, the "enemies" portion of a potential enemies-to-friends fic.





	

She hates him.

His hair is stupid, and his outfits are stupid, and every word he’s ever spoken in a meeting has been stupid, and she may have only been at this school for a grand total of five days, but she’s already wondering whether this asshole is going to survive until graduation.

Veronica scowls down at her beer, takes a sip. _The teachers_ always _go out for drinks after the first week of classes_ , they said. _It’ll be fun,_ they said. _People might possibly pay some iota of attention to you, rather than the asshat down the table,_ they – well, they didn’t say that, but it was implied in their bothering to invite her, damn it. She left New York journalism and got this teaching gig because it was supposed to get her away from egos and general smarminess, not because she wanted to worship at the altar of some English teacher with stupid hair and tailored shirts and the arms of somebody with really good arms, and seriously, who wears tailored shirts to teach high school? What high school teacher even _has_ tailored shirts? 

He’s laughing at the other end of the table, looking like a commercial for – something. Teeth whitening strips, maybe. Or hair product. No less than five of her new fellow teachers – whom she has been mostly mentally identifying by what subject they teach since she’s only managed to pick up a few names here and there, and usually last names at that – are hanging on his every word, laughing along with him at every quip. And _everything_ that comes out of his mouth is a quip. It’s all clever, perfectly timed, and he always laughs at himself in a casual, disarming way, as if to say, “Oh dear, was that funny? I didn’t even try, and I am honestly surprised myself.” 

Has she mentioned that she hates him? 

“I’m serious!” he’s saying, while Bio, Statistics, and Office Assistant all struggle to stop giggling so they, too, can be serious. “I’m just not sure that the dress code is strict enough at this school.”

History, who is not quite as stupidly well-dressed as English, but is clearly _trying_ to be, leans in interestedly, as if his whole life he was only waiting for the perfect opportunity to further legislate sixteen-year-olds’ self-expression. “What do you mean?”

“I _mean_ we have the dress code to prevent distractions, yeah?” History nods; English grins, sufficiently encouraged. “But all that it’s really accomplishing at this point is to avoid the extremes; there’s still _plenty_ of distractions. Frankly, I find it hard to teach sometimes.” 

Veronica leans forward, intending to head this off at the pass, but Statistics gets there first. “I know!” she says, earnest. “It’s like, are you really wearing that? Did you even look in the mirror before you left the house?”

English gestures to her graciously. “Children need to be protected from themselves.”

Veronica stares at him. He says it in such a _specific_ tone, the laugh is already implied. He could be joking, he could be speaking satirically – or he could be perfectly serious, and just really enamored with himself. She honestly can’t tell. It’s unnerving.

Statistics is really warming up to her topic now. “Yeah! The girls with the heavy makeup and the baggy clothing? I just wanna say, honey, you don’t know what kind of _impression_ you’re making. If you could just portray yourself a little differently, you could, like, have _friends_.”

“Precisely. All that this ‘individuality’ accomplishes,” he _actually does air quotes_ , “is the creation of division. People with an inflated sense of their self-importance set themselves apart from the rest of the class, instead of assimilating so that everyone can get along better.” 

Veronica looks around the table, feeling like she must be in shock or something, but everyone seems to be nodding, albeit into their drinks for a few of them. This group is positively spineless. She lifts a hand in a half-hearted attempt to gain some attention. “Hey,” she says, and because she really doesn’t feel like addressing him by his last name like a frat boy, adds, “English.” 

He doesn’t seem to notice. He’s probably distracted by his own gesticulating; his hands are twirling around in front of him, painting a picture she’s sure she would hate to see. “The whole idea of education is to form children into the image of an _ideal_ ,” he says, like he’s just bestowed some kind of astounding revelation, “and in light of that, wouldn’t it just be simpler to have a uniform?”

Veronica gives up. “Mr. Echolls?” she says, firmly.

He makes a show of looking around, his face all pleasant surprise. She resists the urge to wave her hands around, or possibly put up some kind of ironic neon sign with an arrow pointing to her head. His eyes finally settle on her, and for a second the totality of his attention being on her is almost overwhelming. It’s not quite malevolent, but it’s – something. “Miss Mars!” he exclaims. Somehow, what’s sounded like respect or professional distance every other time she’s heard it this week, from him sounds like a jab at her unmarried-ness; she’s almost certain he just snuck at look at her left hand. She tries not to to bristle, and simply stares him down. He bobs his eyebrows, grins at her like they’re co-conspirators. “I appreciate the formality of your address, but really, ‘Logan’ is fine.”

There are assorted appreciative chuckles; Statistics is overtaken by the hilarity of this and rocks sideways in her seat rather precariously in order to grasp at English’s upper arm. He seems to take this as a matter of course.

Veronica graces him with a close-lipped smile. “Thanks, Logan.”

“Well, you have everyone’s attention now,” he says, magnanimous. “The floor is yours.” 

“Thanks,” she repeats, feeling irrationally annoyed by his politeness. Like she needed his permission to enter the conversation. No, sir. “Now, perhaps I’ve misunderstood you,” she says, “but do you really mean to say that forming students according to an ideal implies erasing individuality?”

“Of course!” he says immediately, then laughs. “We’re creating good little workers, good little consumers, yeah? Individuality only gets in the way of capitalism, Miss Mars.”

“I’m sorry, are you here to build up culture or the economy?”

He scoffs. “Culture!” He leans behind Statistics, pokes Office Assistant in the elbow, hisses, “Hey, can you pat Mars’ hand for me? Kind of sympathetically, not too patronizing.”

Office Assistant giggles, and actually has her hand stretched out before she looks across the table and makes eye contact with Veronica, who is doing her best to exude “touch me and lose an extremity” vibes. Office Assistant ducks her head and retracts her hand.

English rolls his eyes and reaches as far across Statistics as he can in an attempt to pat Veronica’s hand himself, then gives up and slaps his hand down on the table a foot from her drink instead. “You’re new,” he declares. “You’ll lose your ideals soon enough.” He re-folds into a normal sitting position; his eyes flick back to her face, and he laughs, elbowing both his seatmates so they catch their cue and follow suit.

She glares. “So if you’re only here to feed worker bees into the system, why don’t you just show powerpoints of advertisements all period?”

“Because the advertisement module isn’t until later in the semester. After Shakespeare and before Steinbeck.”

“ _And_ ,” she says, raising her voice to be heard over Statistics giggling, “you said you find it hard to teach? Are you really _that_ distracted by bright colors, or were you _seriously_ implying that –”

She is, perhaps mercifully, cut off by an abrupt chorus of “Run the World” emitting from her purse. She closes her mouth. English is grinning at her expectantly. “I have to take this,” she announces, swinging the bag onto her shoulder and rising as gracefully as she can manage.

“You _have to_ take it?” he says. “You haven’t even looked to see who’s calling!”

She knows precisely who’s calling, having set that particular ringtone to one contact, but spits across the table at him, “Maybe that tells you something about how this conversation’s going.”

His laugh follows her out of the bar. 

She barely manages to fish the phone out of the darkest corner of her purse on the last ring. “Hey, Lilly?”

“Veronica _Mars_ , pick up your phone a little quicker, wouldja, I _honestly_ thought for a second you weren’t going to take my call!”

Veronica smiles despite herself. “Hey, Lilly.”

“You said that, sweetheart,” Lilly drawls. “You’re slow in a _myriad_ of ways; I don’t think absence from me agrees with you.”

“It never does.” 

“Sooo,” Lilly says, voice overly bright, “how was your first week of sacrificing your career and happiness for a bunch of ugly, smelly children?”

Veronica groans, which is a mistake.

“I knew it!” Lilly crows. “You’re miserable! You’re not being challenged, there’s no thrill left in your life, and you find the whole thing utterly beneath you!”

“That’s not true,” Veronica protests.

“Then why do you sound like all the life has been sucked out of you?”

She snorts. “That’s easy.”

“Well?”

“The English teacher is a _nightmare_. I think he might actually be a demon sent from hell to goad me into committing murder, Screwtape style.”

“Well, murder’s always fun, with you.”

“The real question is how no one else has beat me to it.”

“Aww,” Lilly says, humoring her. “He has a punchable face?” 

“The punchable-est,” Veronica confirms. “But hey!” she adds, trying to keep her tone light and probably failing, “Maybe if I mess up his face, then people will stop getting distracted by his prettiness, and realize that _every word_ that comes out of him is horrifically offensive and disgusting.”

“Prettiness?”

“Don’t start. English is _literally_ the worst person I have ever met.”

“Worse than Donut?”

“Come on, Lilly,” Veronica says, drily. “Donut’s not a person. To be a person you have to live in the world, rather than being perpetually lost inside your own head.”

“You _are_ riled up, Veronica Mars!” Lilly says, delighted. “I like it!” 

“I’m probably _too_ riled up,” Veronica confesses, sighing. “It’s a good thing you called, because I was literally halfway through calling him a pedophile.”

Lilly cackles. 

“It’s not funny!” she says, albeit half-heartedly. Now that she’s outside in the fresh air rather than hemmed in by adoring English-flunkies, the situation doesn’t seem quite so drastic. “He was probably kidding, right?” she asks, when Lilly’s settled down.

“Veronica, I don’t even know what he _said_ ,” Lilly reminds her. “But if I know one thing, it’s that men are capable of all levels of infamy.”

“Too true.” 

“And you know I will always take your side over any penis-wielding cretin.”

“Thanks.” She glances back towards the restaurant; there’s a view of her table through the back window. English is still holding forth, to the great awe and amusement of all. “Should I just make my escape? Go back to the apartment and drink with Mac to celebrate my having survived week one?”

Lilly gasps, theatrically. “You’re _Veronica Mars_ , you don’t _‘make your escape’_. You stay, and you _destroy him_.”

“There is always that.”

“Anyway, I won’t hold you up much longer. I was only calling to ask if we’re still on for our Sunday skype date.”

“Yeah, sure,” Veronica says, absently. She’s trying to figure out what English is talking about based on his hand gestures, and getting nowhere. It’s all very delicate and precise, but she’s beginning to think he’s like that about everything.

“I only ask because there’s a young man here – _what’s your name? Oliver? That’s awful, I’m going to call you something else_ – and he wants to take me to the opera that night, and so if you had other plans – you were going to murder an English teacher, for instance – you wouldn’t have to feel bad about bailing on me.”

“My god, Lilly,” Veronica says, rolling her eyes, “you could have asked me minutes ago. Go to the opera!”

“No, I couldn’t possibly,” Lilly says breezily. “I would never abandon you. I don’t even _want_ to go, and I can’t think of an appropriate alternate name for ‘Oliver’, _ugh_ , so I think this’ll just be the end of it.” 

Veronica can hear Oliver’s faint protests in the background. They sound like pathetical resigned-ness rather than offended pride, kind of on the cute, earnest side, so she offers, “What about Liam?” 

“Mmm. _Tilt your chin up for me, I need to look at your jawline_.” There’s a pause; Veronica decidedly does not look at English’s jawline. “I think he is a Liam, you’re right! Fabulous! But I don’t think I’ll go to the opera on Sunday anyway. Sunday’s for you.” 

“I don’t deserve you.”

“Ugh, _don’t_ be self-deprecating, it doesn’t suit you. You deserve kings and princes, Veronica Mars, and legions of English teacher slaves.”

“With oiled chests?”

Another theatrical gasp. “My _god_ , Veronica, how pretty _is_ he?”

“I don’t even want to talk about it.”

Lilly laughs. “Well, you’re going to tell me _all_ about it on Sunday. And _now_ I’m going to try and convince Liam to buy me an espresso.”

“If he needs much convincing, he’s a fool.”

“All men are, though!”

“I’m not arguing. I’ll talk to you later, Lills.”

“Give ‘em hell, Veronica! _So, Liam, I’ve got bad news and I’ve got good news_ …”

Veronica closes out of the call, unable to help the fond smile as she feels the Lilly-Kane-adjacent calm wash over her. Lilly is crazy, certainly, but something about her presence, even just her voice, always makes everything else seem small. Veronica looks back through the window. Statistics is now laughing so hard that English actually looks a little concerned she’s going to drool on him. It’s kind of, almost, a little bit funny. She could go back in, finish her drink, smile and nod like everybody else is doing. Get the lay of the land before she makes any final decisions about who in the faculty needs to be taken down a notch or two. She just won’t take English seriously, that’s all. She can be pleasant, she can be _likeable_ , damn it. Maybe she’ll even tell English her first name. She nods decisively to herself, and walks back around to the entrance.

Once inside, she finds that a newcomer – Basketball? – has turned up and taken her seat. She’s waffling a few yards away when he sees her. “I’m sorry,” he says, polite, moving to get up. “They told me this was your seat. I wasn’t planning to stay long, so I can just stand.”

She’s about to tell him that it’s fine, she just came in to pay her bill anyway, when English interrupts warmly, “Don’t be idiotic, Wallace, you’re staying. Miss Mars should have a seat down by me anyway.”

Wallace looks at her, apparently questioning whether she’s about to fall all over herself in an attempt to get as close to Smarmy McSkeazepants as possible. She hides a smirk, gives him a slight shake of the head. He grins, slides his chair back.

“Stay put, Coach!” English orders, without looking over. “Alan, your wife misses you. Up, please, Miss Mars needs your chair.”

Chemistry looks nonplussed, but after a second stands clumsily. At first Veronica can hardly believe what she’s seeing, and then belatedly registers that the seat being vacated is directly across from English. “Alan,” she says, as kindly as she can muster, “you’re a grown-ass man, you can just ignore him. I’ll pull up a chair next to…” she snaps her fingers, points at Basketball, who both is seated a safe distance down the table and also seems to be unaffected by English’s spell, “ _Wallace_.”

“She’s new here, and you’re really gonna let her pull up a chair and sit on the corner?” English says mildly. “We’re _supposed_ to be making her feel welcome.”

“Hey,” Veronica says, searching desperately for the peaceful, likeable feeling she’d had such a grasp on only a moment earlier. “Will you knock it off, please?”

“Actually,” Chemistry-Alan interrupts, “I really should get home. My wife would love help with dinner.”

“See,” says English. “His wife. Help with dinner. I told him.” He wiggles his fingers at Chemistry-Alan. “Shoo, Alan.”

“Was nice to meet you,” Alan tells Veronica, sheepish.

“Yeah, thanks Alan.” Veronica pats his arm as he sneaks – _actually sneaks_ – past her. She glances at Wallace, who is giving her a look of pure sympathy. She’s getting the feeling that he’d be texting her English-abuse under the table if they had each other’s numbers, and she resolves to make sure that gets sorted out before she has to do this again. She reluctantly looks at English, who gestures expansively at the now empty seat at the table. She sighs, hangs her bag on the back of the chair, grabs her half a beer from in front of Wallace, and sits.

“So,” English says, steepling his fingers, “I believe you were about to ask if I was distracted by bright colors, and also something else?”

“No,” Veronica says, primly. “That was it.”

He grins. “I bet it was. And Miss Mars, I have to tell you, I find bright colors _very_ distracting.”

“Really.” 

“It’s just very hard to focus when the room is so unattractive.”

“Uh huh.”

“Sometimes the colors don’t even _match_.” 

“If somebody mixes patterns do you have to go home and lie down for an hour afterwards?”

“No, but sometimes I wear sunglasses inside so it doesn’t give me a migraine.”

“Yeah, I bet you wear sunglasses inside.”

He laughs. Statistics looks decidedly put out, which Veronica is enjoying possibly a little more than she should. “Don’t tease,” says English, mock-reproachfully.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” says Veronica, mock-sincerely.

“It’s just that certain things tend to draw the eye.”

“I’m sure.”

His smile suggests that nothing good is coming. “For instance, there’s you.”

That stops her short. “I’m sorry?”

He makes a vague gesture in her direction. “The blouses, the pencil skirts, the shoes. You understand. I’m sure you used this to your advantage at that New York paper job. A lesser man wouldn’t have been able to follow a word you’ve been saying, he’d have been so overwhelmed.” 

Her eyes narrow. “Good thing you’re not a lesser man, then. Because there’ve been a few things I would really hate for you to have missed.

“Received loud and clear, Miss Mars,” he says blithely, hitting her with a finger gun. “But really, women are sort of…” he gestures vaguely in midair, staring off into the middle distance as he searches for words, before coming back to focus on her with that not-quite-malevolent grin. “…inherently distracting.”

“What exactly is it that you’re trying to say?” she snaps.

“They shouldn’t be in the classroom.”

She stares at him, speechless. There’s no way he means it, right? He’s kidding. He’s got to be kidding.

“You mean you’re not in favor of co-ed schools?” History asks.

“That’s actually an interesting question,” Wallace jumps in, sounding a little desperate. “A while back I dated a girl who went to an all-girls college, and she said she loved not having to deal with people pretending to be stupider so they don’t scare guys away, or wearing a pound of makeup to class or whatever. It doesn’t have to be about sexism, necessarily, it could just be that at the time in life when kids are most obsessed with getting dates, they should be educated in isolation from that.”

“But how would they learn how to _flirt_?” Statistics wonders aloud.

“It’s a theory, anyway,” Wallace says uncomfortably.

Statistics looks like she’s about to say something, but Veronica holds up a hand in front of her face. “Hang on.” Statistics looks extraordinarily offended, which is just a bonus. “Echolls,” Veronica says, her voice professional-levels of serious, “you said women are inherently distracting?”

He stretches, folds his hands behind his head _(Seriously, where did those arms come from?!)_ , and looks up towards the ceiling, seemingly uninterested and unworried by everything transpiring. “Yeah?”

“So, are you saying women can’t teach?”

“That’s _exactly_ what I’m saying.” He tips forward again, sees the look on her face and laughs. “I love causing conflict,” he confesses, smiling as if conflict-causing was something she was likely to find endearing.

Veronica sets down her glass, contemplates its apparent emptiness. It was just one beer. One beer, and she’d eaten a late lunch not long ago at all. Her tolerance is still at _I hate my life and everything about it_ levels, leftover from New York, so she feels fine. Not even buzzed. Not nearly affected enough that she could in sincerity blame any social missteps on one-too-many. It’s not the beer talking. Apparently, she really just wants to say it.

“Logan?” she says, placing her forearms on the table delicately and leaning in just a tad. His smile widens and he leans toward her, inclining his ear theatrically. She graces him with the politest returning smile she can summon up in her current state of annoyance, and asks, deadpan and sickly sweet, “Has anybody ever punched you in the face?”

Out of the corner of her eye she sees Statistics’ jaw literally drop; Bio is making horrified squeaking noises and History is going “oooh” under his breath. It’s almost cartoonish. She keeps her gaze fixed on English, though. His eyebrows have raised just very slightly, but she hasn’t done anything yet to wipe the smile off his face. “Wow,” he says, “I don’t know. Let me think about it –”

“Because,” she interrupts, since he seems prepared to spin this into some kind of charming bit, “that’s what goes through my mind every time you say something.”

He’s grinning at her now. “Nope, I don’t think so,” he says, and she doesn’t realize that he’s finishing his sentence, answering her question until he adds, “Just my father.”

She can never tell with him, whether he’s being serious. Now, she wishes she could. 

History scoffs loudly and says, “That means no,” so he clearly thinks it’s a line, but the steadiness with which English is holding her eyes is causing her to think twice. 

She says, “Logan.” Gentle, just a hint of reproach. Vague, yes, since she didn’t use any actual words, but emotionally intimate, since she used his name – she could be saying _Logan, you really shouldn’t joke about something like that_ , or she could be saying _Logan, I’m sorry I joked about something like that_. Guaranteed, if nothing else, not to dig the hole in which she’s taken up residence any deeper. 

He laughs. His posse, grateful to have finally understood the situation, dissolve as one into nervous titters. 

Somehow, she still can’t tell whether he meant it or not.

\-----

“I heard an interesting story about you today.”

“Hello, to you too,” Veronica says, glancing over her shoulder from her position curled up on the living room sofa with a glass of wine and her laptop. Mac is struggling in the doorway with keys and purse and various grocery bags. “Do you need a hand?”

_“Who is it?”_

“Who’s that?” 

“It’s Mac,” Veronica informs her laptop, the irony not lost on her, then, to Mac herself, “Sunday is skype night.” 

Mac gives up on trying to untangle everything and instead places all her groceries on the floor where she stands with exaggerated gentleness. She then kicks the door shut behind her with a noise of frustration, crosses the room, and flops on the opposite end of the sofa.

“You know,” Veronica says sweetly, “if you’d take multiple trips from the car, you wouldn’t have this problem.”

Mac side-eyes her. “Says the human pack mule.”

 _“Come on,”_ pipes up Lilly’s slightly tinny voice, snidely, _“everyone knows that Veronica’s motto is ‘do as I say, not as I do’.”_

Mac snickers. “Hey, Lilly.”

 _“Hey!”_

“New York still standing?”

 _“Barely, without Veronica to hold it up through sheer force of will and strength of character.”_

“My character is strong,” Veronica says. “Shouldn’t you put those groceries away?”

“Shhhhh, Mars, I’m going to.”

 _“Honestly, what_ would _we do without her?”_ Lilly drawls. Veronica has been watching as she reorganizes something in her kitchen, or perhaps just looks for a clean wine glass, but now Lilly picks up her laptop and after a dizzy bit of relocating, settles down in her bed. _“Didn’t I hear something about a Veronica story?”_

“Right!” Mac perks up slightly, and then swivels to jab a finger in Veronica’s general direction. “You’ve been back a _week_ and already I’m hearing stuff!”

“How have you _possibly_ heard stuff?” Veronica asks.

“I know people!” Mac says, half-offended. “I know more people than you do, I bet.”

Veronica shrugs, not going to say that she thinks knowing fewer people is probably closer to something like winning. “Fine, what is this story you’ve heard?”

“Well,” Mac says, scooting sideways so she’s in the frame of Veronica’s webcam, “I’m told you were involved in some kind of…altercation? At the Friday drinks outing?”

Lilly claps her hands together. _“Is this the English teacher thing? I totally forgot, but you were supposed to tell me what happened!”_

Veronica looks sideways at Mac, who smirks. “This _is_ the English teacher thing,” Mac confirms, gleeful.

Veronica sighs. “Who did you hear it from?” 

“Basketball coach.”

“Wallace?”

“Yup! I ran into him at the store.”

“And why is Wallace telling you stories about me?”

Mac laughs. “He just thought it was a good story. He didn’t even know that we knew each other – he was pretty impressed when I correctly guessed who the new spitfire teacher was. I said, _Was that Veronica Mars, by any chance_? And he said, _Yes it was, you don’t know that crazy chick, do you_?”

“I thought Wallace liked me!”

 _“Hey hey hey!”_ Lilly is waving her hands spastically on the monitor. _“I don’t know the story! Tell_ me _the story!”_

Mac holds up one finger. “Wallace does like you, Veronica, but I think he might like you _because_ you’re crazy. Like we do.”

 _“Maaaaac.”_

“Fine! Veronica unleashing her crazy on the English teacher, coming up!” Mac pulls her feet up onto the couch and sits crosslegged, places both hands together as if in prayer, and then points her fingertips at the screen. “So Wallace arrives late to first-Friday-of-the-school-year drinks, right, because sports stuff goes late? And there’s one chair open at the table, so he goes to sit down and Logan goes, _Hey, man, that seat’s taken._ And Wallace as a rule kind of thinks Logan is a dick, but they usually get along okay, so he’s thinking, what the fuck, right? Why am I suddenly not allowed at the table? So he just kind of laughs, like it’s a joke, and sits down anyway. But Logan’s like, _No, dude, I’m serious, someone’s sitting there._ So Wallace says, _Okay, dude, who’s sitting here?_ And Logan just shrugs and says, _I don’t know, some new girl._ And Wallace still can’t figure out what he’s talking about, so he tells Logan it’s real nice of him to be so welcoming to new teachers, but could he please sit here for a minute until the new girl gets back? And Logan says, _Fine, do what you want, don’t blame me when she disembowels you._ ”

 _“Wait wait wait!”_ Lilly shrieks. _“What did we miss? Wally arrived too late! Veronica!”_

Mac looks over at her. “Yeah, what _had_ you done up to that point to make him use the word ‘disembowel’?”

Veronica squirms. “I don’t know. I just argued with him.”

_“With your words or with your taser?”_

“With my words!”

_“Which ones?”_

“Can’t Mac just finish the story?” Veronica says, feeling slightly desperate for this to be over.

Mac is staring thoughtfully into space. “Can I have a glass of wine?” 

Veronica rolls her eyes, sighs. “Yes, fine. But put your groceries away first!”

Mac snorts, but vaults herself into a standing position and wanders over to drag the groceries into the kitchen. “What was the argument about?” she calls behind her.

“I don’t _know_ ,” Veronica says. “The dress code? Women, I guess. Sexism.”

 _“He’s a sexist?”_ Lilly asks, sounding appropriately horrified by this.

“I don’t even know. He could be the most misogynistic ass on the face of the planet, or he could just be a guy who has a truly shitty sense of humor. I seriously can’t tell.”

_“And you…?”_

“I just challenged him on it!” Veronica insists. “Everyone else at the table was laughing and agreeing with everything he said. I just wanted to know what he meant. There’s no reason for him to accuse me of being a disemboweler.” 

_“Really, Veronica? Because I feel like I’m missing out on some quality story info, here.”_

“If it was quality, I’d tell you,” Veronica tells her. “But it’s not.”

“The quality is what comes next!” Mac says, collapsing back onto the sofa with as much force as a nearly full glass of wine will allow. She sips, elbows Veronica. “Would you like to tell or shall I?”

“I’d really rather we –”

“What am I saying, you’ve been butchering this whole thing, I’ll tell it.”

_“Yay!”_

“So,” Mac says cheerfully, “after a minute or two, Veronica comes back, and Wallace offers her the chair back like he promised, and suddenly, Logan just isn’t having it anymore! _No_ , now, Veronica has to go sit by _him_.” Lilly squeals obligingly, Mac grins and waves her into silence. “So there’s this big rigmarole with getting her a seat, and the way Wallace told it, Veronica was _totally unimpressed_ the whole time, barely giving Logan the time of day. So she sits down, the two of them start talking, and it’s going okay, right? They’re only interested in talking to each other and ignoring the rest of the table really rudely, but they seem to be getting along, even if Veronica isn’t fawning all over him like apparently everyone else does, and then – Logan makes a joke about co-ed schooling, and Wallace said Veronica just _lost_ it.”

“I did not,” Veronica says, half-heartedly.

“She interrupts this floozy, leans over the table, and says –” Mac pauses for effect, leans in to the computer, and says with slightly more menace than Veronica thinks she did, “ _Hey, Logan, has anybody ever punched you in the face? Because that’s all I can think about whenever you talk._ ”

Lilly, who has almost certainly been holding her breath, now howls and flops over on the bed.

“It’s really not that funny,” Veronica says, knowing full well it won’t make any difference. Lilly shifts into the fetal position, kicking her polka-dot socked feet back and forth while she wheezes. Mac looks very pleased with herself.

 _“Veronica Mars,”_ Lilly finally says, rolling onto her stomach and wiping at her eyes, _“you’re my hero.”_

Mac raises her wine glass. “Mine, too.”

 _“I’m be_ yond _proud of you, dear.”_

“Thanks…” Veronica slumps dramatically, sliding down the couch a little, wishing she could retract into her shell like a turtle. “I wasn’t even trying to be snarky,” she whines. “It was an honest question.” 

_“You were honestly curious if he’d ever been punched?”_

“It seemed _highly unlikely_ that I was the first person to find him aggravating! And,” she adds reasonably, “some guys spend their whole lives getting slapped by women every time they open their mouths, I figured he might fall into that type.”

“But wait, folks,” interrupts Mac, smugly, “…there’s more.”

“Can’t we just leave it?” Veronica says, ignoring Lilly’s shriek of delighted anticipation.

“This is what _makes_ the story.”

“Aagh.”

“So!” Mac continues, bright. “Everyone is in shock, they can’t believe this tiny new journalism teacher has just thrown down the gauntlet like that. And Logan just says, _Nope, no one’s ever punched me…just my father._ ”

 _“Oooooh,”_ Lilly says. _“The plot thickens. Serious or not serious?”_

Veronica shrugs, trying to appear apathetic. “Beats me. What did Wallace say?”

“He didn’t. He just said you got all melty and empathetic.” Mac leans over into Veronica’s space, nudges her with her elbow, flutters her eyelashes a little. “The great Veronica Mars has emotions like the rest of us!”

Veronica swats at her. “I thought he might have meant it!” 

Mac sobers slightly. “You think?”

“You didn’t see his eyes, Mac.”

“Well, whether it’s true or not,” Mac says, clearly trying to be rational, “there was no way you could have known.”

Veronica snorts. “I know. That’s why _normal_ people don’t go around asking others whether they’ve been punched in the face – just in case the affirmative answer isn’t something they want to talk about. God, is my trigger finger really itchy these days or am I just not as good a judge of character as I used to be?”

“Hey,” Mac says, “occasionally someone’s gotta put Logan Echolls in his place. You did that school – you did the world a service. Don’t beat yourself up. It might not even be true.”

 _“’d you say Echolls?”_ Lilly pipes up.

“Yeah,” Veronica says. “Mr. Logan Echolls, English teacher extraordinaire.”

_“Huh.”_

“You sound weird, Lilly,” Mac tells her.

Lilly grimaces. _“It’s true.”_

“What?” Mac exclaims. Veronica just groans and slides further down the couch. Her laptop teeters on her legs; Mac grabs it. “What’s true, _it’s_ true?” she demands.

“Cindy Mackenzie you are a _gossip_ and a terrible roommate!” Veronica accuses, settling on the floor. For good measure, she stretches and grabs the corner of an afghan from the back of the sofa and drags it down with her.

 _“Is she okay?”_ says Lilly.

“She’s fine,” Mac says dismissively, “I think this turning into a full-fledged crisis was inevitable. So, what, do you know this guy?”

_“Veronica?”_

“’m fine.” Veronica says. “Do you, Lill?”

 _“We grew up with him,”_ Lilly confesses. _“Before my dad moved me here and I met you.”_

“We being you and Duncan?” Veronica says, feeling the need for as much clarity as possible.

_“He and Duncan were good friends. Duncan was actually nearly human when Logan was around.”_

“Hard to imagine.”

“And you know it’s true?” Mac presses.

Veronica can hear Lilly sigh. _“Definitely. Not long after we left, I found out that his mom had just left his dad, sued for custody, and disappeared with him. I haven’t heard from him in years.”_

“And you’re sure she left him because –” Veronica can’t get the words out. The pause stretches out and she can’t see Lilly so she ends pitifully, “because of abuse?”

 _“Positive. It all came out, everybody knew. And besides, Logan was_ constantly _injured growing up – casts and slings and bruises. He always had a story, and we’d always believed him, but a lot of things made sense once we knew.”_

Veronica thumps her head on the edge of the sofa. “His father hit him,” she says finally. 

_“Yeah.”_

“His _father_ ,” she repeats, “hit him.” The words taste bitter in her mouth, but still don’t seem real. She can’t imagine it, can’t understand it. Can’t picture Logan as a child, can’t picture Logan as anything other than the completely put-together, brashly confident adult she’s been seething about and glaring at all week. Can’t stop seeing her own father in her mind, and every time he ever kissed her hair, or told her he loved her, or changed his life to make hers easier or happier. She knew the world was imperfect. Hell, she knew _parents_ were imperfect, has known that firsthand for years, but – “Logan’s father _hit him_.” 

Mac nudges her with a knee, but nobody says anything. 

Veronica manages a choked laugh. “I told an abuse victim that every word out of his mouth made me think about punching him in the face.”

“Well, it sounds bad when you say it like _that_ ,” Mac says, uncomfortably.

“It sounded bad from the beginning!” 

_“Veronica!”_ Lilly’s voice is imperative. 

“What?”

 _“Stop it,”_ Lilly commands. _“You didn’t know, you didn’t mean it like that, and besides, you’re missing two bright sides to all of this.”_

Veronica laughs, feeling a little unhinged. “Oh, really! Please, by all means, fill me in!”

_“Well, first of all, I know Logan, and he’s not a misogynist. We dated for, my god, ages, and he was nothing but respectful and caring.”_

“So the bright side is that I snapped at him just for making a joke, and he’s genuinely not a bad guy?” Veronica says, incredulous. “That’s your bright side?”

“No, _come on, Veronica, give me a_ little _credit. The bright side is that it will be easier for you to deal with him from now on, right? Because you’ll know he doesn’t mean any of the awful things he says.”_

Veronica huffs. “Okay, bright side for the future. I guess I’ll take that.”

Mac clears her throat. “And um, on the theme of _Logan’s-really-not-that-bad_ , I just realized you may not know this because you haven’t been home in a few years, but he’s actually somewhat of a hero at that school.”

“Obviously,” Veronica says, contemplating the wine bottle in the next room.

“No, I mean, for a _reason_ ,” Mac stresses. “Like, half-the-faculty-owes-him-their-jobs kind of reason.”

Veronica twists around to look at her. “How’s that?”

She shrugs, gestures indistinctly. “There were budget cuts a few years ago, and the humanities and the arts were really going to suffer. He supplied funding for a bunch of departments out of his own pocket, and then built the new auditorium and got all new instruments for the band, and other stuff I don’t remember. I could look it up, if you want.”

“Nooo, thank you.”

“Anyway, if some of the other teachers are weird about him, it’s at least partly because without him there wouldn’t be any music or theater or art.” Mac looks thoughtful. “Could be your job, too.”

Veronica lets out a single helpless laugh. 

_“Good for Logan!”_ Lilly chirps.

Veronica says, begrudging, “It explains a lot, anyway.” 

“Pretty sure he’s also been voted best teacher by the students three years running,” says Mac, helpfully.

“Now you’re just being mean,” Veronica tells her, earning a half-hearted kick in the ribs. “Lilly, you said you had two bright sides?”

_“I do!”_

“Tell me the second one is less about Logan’s impeccable character and more about getting me out of the mess I am currently in?”

 _“Sorry, Veronica. But no. The second bright side is that you were right, and Logan_ is _incredibly pretty – I can’t even_ imagine _what he looks like now – so you always have the consolation prize of just, kind of – staring at him. If you can’t kiss and make up, that is.”_

Mac laughs; Veronica just says flatly, “There won’t be any kissing, Lill.”

 _“Why not? Think_ big _, darling.”_

Veronica moans. “I don’t want to go to school tomorrow!”

Mac pats her shoulder. “Chin up, Mars,” she says, wryly, “at least you’re back to your high school status quo.”

\-----

 

Monday morning, before the buses have arrived and the school is still eerily quiet, Veronica is washing her hands in a faculty restroom when the music teacher, Carrie, sidles in, catches sight of her, and beams. Veronica smiles at her in the mirror, because even if being excited about cornering people in bathrooms is weird and disturbing, she resolved last night after going through another bottle of wine with Mac that from now on she is going to err on the side of politeness. Carrie saunters up, leans on the sink and says with far too much glee for six-thirty in the morning, “You’re the new journalism teacher, right?”

“That’s right,” Veronica says, reverting to nonsensical distracting chatter. “Only new journalism, no old journalism here. In my classroom, it’s listicles and twitter exposés or it’s nothing.”

Carrie rolls her eyes. She has a great eye roll. Veronica takes a second to admire it, break it up into its constitutive parts, and memorize it for her own use. “So,” Carrie says, taking a second to apply a fresh coat of lipstick, “I hear you’re sassy.”

Veronica snorts, breaks eye contact, ostensibly to fix her makeup in the mirror but mostly because she can sense where this is heading. “What?” she says, trying to inject a little disdain into her tone. Me, sass? Sass is beneath me.

It doesn’t work. “They tell me,” Carrie repeats, unfazed, “you’re sassy.” 

Veronica sighs. She knew the English fan club was too large and too unanimous; it seems at last and too late she has found a dissenter. Unfortunately, she’s not really in the mood to be congratulated for her earlier mouthy-ness. She answers dismissively, “Well, if you’re talking about what I think you are, I’m flattered, but a better word would probably be ‘nasty’.”

Carrie smiles at her knowingly. “Don’t worry, new girl. The math bimbo hates you, but pretty much everyone else is a fan.”

“Everyone else?” Carrie nods, oh-so-pleased with herself. Veronica tries out the new eye roll; she thinks it goes off. “This would be the same ‘they’ that told you I’m sassy,” she says.

“The very same.”

“And are you sure that was supposed to be a good thing?” 

“Oh,” Carrie says, mischievously, “Logan _definitely_ meant it as a compliment.” 

Veronica stares at her. Carrie just smiles wider. “Shit,” says Veronica, for lack of any more substantive response.

Carrie laughs. “Everyone’s a fan,” she says again. 

“Apparently,” Veronica manages, dry.

“You’ll get used to him,” Carrie adds. “It’s rough at first, I know, but you’ll figure him out eventually.”

“Will I?” Veronica says, unwilling to let her all-too-real anxiety slip into her voice. “Because right now my plan is to avoid him forever.”

Carrie snorts. “Good luck.” She flips her hair over her shoulder, winks at Veronica in the mirror, and slips out.

\-----

 

Turns out, with a full schedule of classes, Veronica’s time is so structured that she doesn’t even need to try in order to avoid Logan – then again, she doesn’t think she could actually see anyone on purpose, either. She, blessedly, runs into Mac’s friend Wallace right before her lunch break, which they apparently share. After he says, “So Friday was really something,” and she replies only with _“Ha!”_ he very kindly refrains from mentioning the debacle any further and instead gives her all the teacher gossip he knows, which mostly consists of who has kids who attend the school and who can’t make it through their turn chaperoning dances or field trips without a flask. Right before the bell rings they exchange phone numbers and Wallace says they should get drinks with Mac that weekend, and Veronica is surprised to discover that she’s actually pleased to accept. Other than that, her day is filled up with the students of Journalism I, Journalism II, and History of Journalism, as well as her newspaper staff constantly rushing in and out. A lot of the kids are the spoiled, apathetic future trophy wives and white collar criminals that she remembers from her own high school days, but she has a few juniors and seniors on the staff that are genuinely excited to have a “real journalist” as their teacher, and keep asking her questions about her “scoops” and her interview techniques and begging her to proofread their pieces, which is nothing if not endearing. She still doesn’t know if she’ll stay. But she can definitely add those few students to the list of reasons – Dad, Mac, no New York men, no stories that involve risking her life – that coming home was a good idea. 

By the time she’s printed all the handouts she’ll need for the following day’s lessons and graded two classes worth of sample interviews, the school is again quiet around her and she has entirely forgotten about her eternal shame and her resolve to avoid its source. In fact, she’s feeling pretty good about her day when she finally slips out of her classroom and finds herself falling into step with one Logan Echolls, English teacher extraordinaire. 

For a blissful moment, it really seems like he is going to allow them to walk down the hallway in uncomfortable silence, but then he clears his throat. “You’re shorter than I thought,” he announces.

Veronica glances at him sideways. He’s staring straight ahead. “I actually get that a lot,” she says, careful to keep her tone even, inoffensive.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I guess I walk tall, or something.”

He glances at her, nods. “That must be it.”

“Well,” she says, “thanks.”

“Yeah,” he says, serious. “Congratulations on being short.”

She shoots him a look, he’s grinning. She groans, decides abruptly that there isn’t much point in being _too_ polite. “Congratulations to you too!” she says wryly. “On being a _terrific pain in the ass._ ”

He laughs. “Miss Mars, you really can’t keep a civil tongue in your head, can you?”

“I can be _perfectly_ civil, thank you,” she retorts. “ _You_ really can’t resist provoking me.”

He only bobs his eyebrows. 

“Well, I hope you’re enjoying yourself,” she tells him, darkly.

His nod is solemn. “Very much.” She doesn’t answer, and for a couple seconds it is silent again. Veronica can see the exit leading out to the parking lot just up ahead, and she’s more than ready to make her escape. Then Logan adds, with some levity, “I do feel it’s only fair to tell you, in light of your insistence on making trouble, that I have some not-insignificant control over whether you keep your job.”

She stops dead, grabs his elbow, blurts, _“Hey.”_ He pivots to face her; she asks, low, “ _What_ did you just say?” 

He only smiles inanely. 

She snorts, drops his arm. “You don’t scare me,” she tells him derisively.

“Really?” he says, mild. “Because it’s possible you just don’t have enough information.”

“I have _plenty_ of information.”

“Really? What’s the scoop, Miss Mars? Got a source?”

She glares at him. “Your mom’s name is over the auditorium. And the gym, _and_ two of the computer labs. It doesn’t take much in the way of investigative skills to figure that one out.” 

“Yeah, but did you know that we could put up her name over your classroom as well?”

“Did it ever occur to you that I know all about your philanthropic heroism and I just don’t _give_ a shit?”

“Brave girl.”

“ _Qualified_ girl,” Veronica snaps. “I know more about journalism than you know about _speaking_ the goddamn English language, and if you get me fired for not laughing at every single one of your jokes there are a million other places I could go, so I’m _not_ going to pander to you.”

He stares her down. The moment stretches out, Veronica is considering whether Lilly would be angry if Veronica tazed her favorite ex-boyfriend, and then he rocks back on his heels and winks. “Thank god for that,” he says pleasantly.

She stares at him blankly for a second, then groans. “Seriously, Echolls. Are you really that bored?”

He shrugs. “Aren’t you?”

She rolls her eyes. _“No.”_

He reaches out, pats her on the shoulder once before she swats his hand away. “You will be,” he says, sympathetically. “This town just doesn’t have much to offer.”

“ _You’re_ still here,” she points out.

“I don’t ask for much in life,” he says, breezily. “Just a roof over my head, adoring lackeys, and,” he gestures at her, “some source of entertainment.”

She narrows her eyes. “Ever heard of Netflix?”

“I have not,” he says, eyebrows raising. “Get a drink with me and explain it?”

“No!”

He shrugs. “Suit yourself.” He turns on his heel, tosses over his shoulder with a smirk, “Welcome to Neptune… _Journalism_.”

Slightly at a loss, she stares after him. He waves at her jauntily at the door, and she recovers enough to yell after him, “Fuck off, English!” 

He laughs. “I’ll see you around, Veronica.” And then he’s gone.

She glares.

His hair is still stupid.

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't talked to non-doctoral students in way too long, and it shows in the dialogue. Sorry, I just can't remember what normal conversation sounds like. Also, for the love of all that's holy, someone take my italics away from me.  
> Everyone is alive. Gia and Meg and all the rest of the faithful fridged are around somewhere too, even if not mentioned. Practically everyone is friends. I really wanted Weevil to show up, but couldn’t think of anything for him to do.  
> Title from Sara Bareilles’ “Sweet As Whole”, which is a lovely song for Veronica.  
> Edit: I suppose if y'all want to come follow me on Tumblr that'd be cool?? Tried to add a link, it was weird, so it's just the same username as here.


End file.
